


should could would

by almosthello, happinesssdeceit (crescenttwins)



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood, Gore, Horror, Illustrated, Jealousy, Knives, M/M, Organs, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-28 05:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11411058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almosthello/pseuds/almosthello, https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenttwins/pseuds/happinesssdeceit
Summary: There is a nightmare in Mikleo’s house, and all his years as a law enforcement investigator have failed him because it wears a familiar face.





	should could would

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, there was a friend who had a [doodle ](https://twitter.com/firidus/status/879178160897531904) that was used to lure in another friend to write ridiculously fluffy pwp. This is not that fic. ([This is, though](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11412471)). 
> 
> _This_ is a collab that started off as a throwaway comment by almosthello during the editing of that fic, and ended up being a random piece of bloody scene between a Victorian foreplay. (We figured that it probably wasn't appropriate to leave there.) **Please read the tags for trigger warnings!**
> 
> Clicking on the art will take you to the original post on Twitter! Please give her lots of love there. <3

There’s a metallic stench in the air, something that claws up Mikleo’s throat, makes it hard for him to breathe. He doesn’t know where to look, the room dark and something squelches under his foot on the basement floor, too slick to be mud. He fumbles along the wall for a light switch, the small amount filtering through the window not enough to see what’s going on. 

There’s movement in the room, and Mikleo swallows a sob, his heart racing. _Run_ , part of him screams, terrified, but his legs are locked, eyes fixated on whatever terror will come.

When the nightmare arrives, it wears a familiar face. 

“Mikleo,” it croons softly, fingers rising towards him. The smell grows stronger as it approaches, and Mikleo moves his eyes away from the-- the _thing_ wearing his lover’s face.

You don’t name your nightmares. It makes them tangible, gives them the power to swallow you. But when Mikleo looks away, his eyes catch on deep blue of the shirt it’s wearing. Even with the gore smeared across it, Mikleo remembers wrapping his fingers in the cloth when he tucked it around Sorey that morning, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lover’s mouth. It’s startling, enough that Mikleo forces his eyes back up as wet fingers stroke his cheek. They leave behind something that feels thick against his skin, putrid and heavy.

“What are you doing down here, Mikleo?” Sorey asks, voice as gentle as it had been this morning, their bodies curled together in the morning light.

“I--” Mikleo stutters, “What--”

A large hand circles around his wrist, stroking his pulse point gently. “Take your time,” he says, “Is everything okay?”

Mikleo takes a step backwards, hits the basement wall, and Sorey lets him go. His hands fumbles against the wall, and flickers over the light switch.

The room is flooded with the half-yellow light of old bulbs, and Mikleo falls against the wall, sliding down to hit the floor. His fingers are trembling against the floor, catching on a slick texture Mikleo has never needed to touch with bare hands. Part of him shuts down, trades the hysteria building in his chest for the mental silence that has become a touchstone of his identity as an investigator.

The organs, when he looks down, are chopped strangely-- cleanly removed but not cut along their natural divisions, like a strange art piece. There is a heart with half of its left chamber sliced away. A pile of intestines are sliced lengthwise but left continuous and clean, the waste washed away; a distant part of Mikleo registers the sound of a sink dripping in the background. When he turns to look at Sorey-- at the room-- it is splashed with gore, blood congealing on the walls and floor, low velocity splatters from a stab wound. There’s a knife on the table, one that went missing from their kitchen weeks ago, and the spacing between its jagged teeth will no doubt be consistent with the autopsy reports that are still locked in Mikleo’s briefcase upstairs. 

Sorey crouches down before him, and if he hadn’t been splattered with blood, the look of concern on his face would have made Mikleo smile at him. “What’s wrong, Mikleo?” Sorey says, soft.

The part of Mikleo that had been locked away begins screaming, and Mikleo pushes himself away from Sorey, eyes locked on his lov-- on the other man’s hands. _There is nothing right here,_ he wants to sob desperately, wants to cling to the man he has been planning to spend his life with. His murder investigations are supposed to be limited to after dinner rants over incompetence and the sick brilliance of the murderers he chases; they are things that were never supposed to touch their haven-- not with blood drying on Sorey’s face and not with a body on their basement floor.

His stomach feels like it’s turning, his lungs restricted, and Mikleo gasps, trying to breathe, but his body is rejecting the air. There are spots in his vision, and he can’t get enough air, his breaths coming faster and lighter, until Mikleo realizes the burning in his lungs is trailed by burning in his eyes, and he can’t--

A hand comes over his mouth, and the taste of blood on his tongue would make him scream if he only had the breath--

“Hold them in,” Sorey instructs carefully, cradling Mikleo against his chest. “Just for a bit longer.” He’s rubbing his back, warm circles that are smearing the gore over Mikleo’s shirt, “It’s okay, Mikleo, breathe deep.”

The inhale that he makes next is steadier, and Mikleo presses a shakier one against Sorey’s shirt. Sorey leads him through more breaths, ignoring the tears that Mikleo is soaking his shirt with-- and why would he, Mikleo thinks, a bit deliriously, when they are merely additions to the blood that already lives there.

“I won’t hurt you,” Sorey murmurs into his hair, “Never you, Mikleo.” 

Mikleo stares at the ruined shirt in front of him as he lets out another ragged breath, remembers foolishly laughing when Sorey teased, a strange tone to his voice, _Should I be jealous? You always chase your serial killers so desperately._

“I know,” Mikleo says, throat raw. “I know, Sorey.”

The kiss Sorey presses into his hair feels like a shackle around his neck.

  
[ ](https://twitter.com/firidus/status/884451393515405312)  


**Author's Note:**

> Art (and beta'ing) by almosthello and fic by happinesssdeceit! Please let us know what you thought ( ~~...including if you might, perhaps, be interested to more of this 'verse?~~ ) by leaving kudos or a comment below! <3


End file.
